


Rumble and Flash

by Phantomholdsmyheart2743



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Destiny, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, OTP Feels, Slow Romance, They love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomholdsmyheart2743/pseuds/Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: A rainy day and some bad news leads to reconciliation. E/C COMPLETE
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

Rumble and Flash

A/N: I know, it's been a long time. However, know that All The Words I Cannot Sing is not abandoned. In fact, I have two chapters that I just need to edit. I've just been focusing on my non-fanfic writing (Novels are hard, guys). That being said, have an apology oneshot! Review please, your kind words and comments are always dearly appreciated.

It had been storming for two days straight, and there didn't appear to be an end in sight. Everyone was beginning to feel the effects of being cooped up in the opera house. Squabbles, affronted looks--it is extremely difficult to focus on choreography and staging when every plop of rain upon the roof is begging you to sleep. Yawns abounded despite the scolding of Reyer and the visiting director.

Christine peeked out from her hiding place as Reyer shouted her name. Wickedly, she did not emerge fully, instead nestling herself back into the clothing racks that had been shoved into a corner. She sat upon a pile of discarded petticoats and closed her eyes wearily. What did it matter if he was displeased? He could hardly fault her for her absence. She had been waiting for three hours, and had been tucked away for two of them. She plucked at a sequined hem. Raoul had gone to the seaside to visit family, and despite his promises had neglected to write to her. She had woken that morning (she hadn't bothered to return home, and slept in her dressing room) to the sound of giggling. A paper had been pushed under the door. She grumbled as she picked it up, regretting that she had not taken advantage of Erik's open invitation to stay at his home.

The front page showed Raoul smiling adoringly at a statuesque creature in a silk gown. Lady Celine, she had read before tossing it away in disgust. She wasn't surprised, even in their youth Raoul's affections had been as flighty as they were earnest. Perhaps he couldn't help it, but that didn't mean that it hurt. Though at this point, she dreaded Erik's gloating more than Raoul's betrayal. Raoul's betrayal, she thought, could not have come at a more convenient time.

The masquerade was coming up, and she rather thought it might be nice to have Erik as her escort. The idea had come to her vaguely at first, and she had brushed it away, but the fact remained that unlike most daydreams it didn't fade. She found herself picturing Erik's hands on the curve of her waist as they danced. She couldn't help picturing the jealous faces of ballet rats and society ladies alike when they saw his tall silhouette and his golden eyes. Couldn't shake her desire for his complete attention in a roomful of people. A chance to say to the world that he was hers.

She had never been proprietary, but Erik. She dreamt such wicked things. His voice and hands and tongue. The textured skin of his face under her palms, dragging over her skin as that voice poured endearments over her flesh. Erik.

She leaned backwards dreamily, expecting to make contact with the wall, but instead found that she now leant up against something slightly bonier and meticulously clad in silk. "I hear that secret passages abound in this opera." Erik. She blushed.

She took the gloved hand that he offered and scrambled to her feet. "Are you cross with me?" She asked, heart still racing from her sordid thoughts.

"My dear, you need no rehearsal. They kept you waiting, and they don't deserve you." But his golden eyes avoided her gaze. Of course, she caught his meaning. She needed not rehearse with the company, so long as she rehearsed with him.

"Have you been here the whole time?"

"I've been in the flys. The ballet needs a miracle if we're to open in a month."

She laughed softly. "Oh, Erik. They wouldn't dare disappoint the great and terrible opera ghost." He flinched at her teasing adjectives, and she placed a reassuring hand upon his arm. "I suppose you've seen the paper." She offered in truce, "You were right to call his affections fickle."

"For what it's worth, I am sorry. I want you to be happy." His hand floated between them for a moment as he fought the impulse to touch her. She wanted to seize it and press it to her.

"I am." And their gaze lingered for too long. Lately she had been losing her command of time when she was with Erik.

"You might have come to see me sooner." The light was soft and fragmented by the shadows of garments. "To think we could have been having tea. I could have been free of this ridiculous outfit." Her unintentional innuendo served its purpose.

His eyes flicked over her embroidered corset, the curves of her breasts that it revealed. She smiled, but he startled and muffled a soft apology. She blushed at his blush. They glanced shyly at each other.

"Forgive me for my lack of hospitality," he whispered. "This palace of music is my domain, and I should hate to leave you wanting." She felt the lack of space between them. The meaning of words had been blurring between them. She felt the urge to lean into the solidity of his chest. He turned away first.

Tiptoe. Small steps. She had grown to easy with him, and he was unused to the idea of someone wishing to spend time with him. She found herself reaching for him. Brief touches, his shoulder, his hand. Once, she had forgot herself and smoothed his hair as he played for her. He had retreated immediately, and she did not see him again for nearly an hour when he had returned offering her favorite chocolates in apology. But since then he had not shied away, had been more open to her touch, had offered his own in return.

She had been listening to Sorelli and the ballet rats speak of their lovers. The parallels with her relationship with Erik were obvious. The secret thrill of closeness. Fast heart. Trembling hands. Dreams full of pleasure. She had begun to piece together that perhaps she was not afraid of Erik after all, despite his face.

A steady compromise had slowly been reached since the night that she had taken his mask. She agreed not to give up her music and marry if he promised to continue their lessons and never frighten her again. The mask? They didn't speak of it. Not at all. She didn't even react beyond a gasp when he arrived one night wearing a rubber mask that so perfectly blended with his unmarred side that she had been speechless. Last week. The first time he had kissed her hand. A ritual he had continued every day since.

She watched him now as he turned and worked the mechanism of the tunnel. It was dark as night, but as she took his hand she was not afraid.

"Erik?" She could see his eyes, almost glowing in the blackness. "May I stay with you tonight?" She felt the sudden stillness, heard his shaky intake of breath. So unlike her maestro. She had asked to stay with him only twice before. The first occasion was when she had turned her ankle, the second when the snow would permit no carriages. All the other nights that she had stayed were inadvertent accidents. She'd fall asleep on the chaise or Erik's armchair and wake in the morning with his dressing gown over her. Once, she had woken as he covered her. "Sleep well, my Christine." He had whispered, thinking her asleep. "Sleep well."

She always felt like she was intruding when she explicitly declared her intention to stay, for Erik kept strange hours, and when she was there he made such an effort to keep her comfortable that she felt as though he mustn't be able to relax. She always felt awful that he had to keep his mask on. She could see his pain increase with every smile, every bite of food at dinner. It was different when they slipped together into accidental evenings. No pressure, nothing forced.

"Christine, you need only ask. Even asking is superfluous, for you are always welcome in my home." His voice, that sinful, decadent voice curled around her. Around her like a cloak of night and music. Erik.

They spoke no more until the blue glow of the lake appeared in the distance. Though the cobblestones and slippery ground were now visible, she could not bring herself to release his hand.

His home was warm. It had that particular aura of comfort and decadence that always reminded her of being safe. The warmth of knowing that someone was looking out for you. Unlike her childhood home, it was ornately decorated and smelled of foreign spices and citruses. Like parchment and tea. Like Erik.

She toed off her shoes as Erik hung his cloak. Erik did the same. None of the dirt of the tunnels had ever touched his beautiful carpets. She watched as he smoothed his mussed hair. Erik had beautiful hair. So dark that it shone nearly blue, and (she knew) it was soft and thick. Her fingertips fairly tingled in remembrance, so she padded past temptation to her room. There she quickly undressed, throwing on a simple loose dress and her dressing gown. She unbraided her hair, ran a comb through it, and went to her second favorite room in Erik's home. It went without saying that the music room was her favorite.

Thought, the library, which doubled as a sitting room had its own claims on her. Within a huge fire roared in the hearth, and she curled up in Erik's chair. It was soft, and big enough for two, with plush arms that were perfect for pillowing ones head. In the distance she could hear the tea things clinking.

Once, she had offered to help. He had agreed tentatively, but she quickly saw that it had made him nervous to have her watch him. He was so unused to company. Since then, she had merely waited curled up in his huge chair listening to the sounds of domesticity. A habit she had aquired easily as breathing these past months. It was easy to drift into dreams below, where the crackle of the fire mixed with the lapping of the lake.

Erik arrived, but stopped in the doorway seemingly struck by her feline pose of relaxation. Her small feet tucked beneath her, head pillowed on her hands. She smiled, and reached for him.

He came to her, setting the tea tray upon the table. If they meant less to each other, he might have had to ask what she took in her tea. But instead he wordlessly stirred a single cube of sugar and a dash of cream into the smoky Russian tea they both favored. Touched by his thoughtfulness, Christine decided that it was as good a time as any to articulate her thoughts.

"I've been thinking a lot about the ball."

A pregnant pause as he stopped stirring her tea. "Oh?"

Christine pulled herself to a semi-upright position, taking the offered teacup, and balancing it on the arm of the chair patted the space beside her. He blinked, unsure, and she repeated the gesture. There was no point in him sitting across from her when there was plenty of space beside her.

Agog, but willing, he folded his long body in beside her. "I want you..." She trailed off, for those three words did convey the blanket of her meaning. With him so close she lost the subtlety of specifics. She changed tactics. "What I mean to say is, come with me."

"Christine." He warned.

"It's a masquerade, no one would know." There, she had breeched the topic. He seemed to crumple.

"You would. I would."

"What if I don't care?" She swallowed a burning gulp of tea, glancing at him.

"You are much too kind." He said. He carefully drained his teacup. "To see you fall into pretend, Christine. A place where I could be...a man for you. The loss of the feeling might end me." She shuddered as he caressed her cheek.

"Erik, I--" She blushed. How to make him understand? "It doesn't have to be for one night, I would like to be with you."

"If it's an escort you require, you should find them in abundance." The place where his fingers were cried out for continued contact.

She abandoned her teacup, and laid a trembling hand upon his knee, pushing herself up onto her knees. Level with his eyes. "I want you. I'd want you even if it weren't a masquerade. We don't have to go. If...just please, spend that evening with me."

"Christine." But even as he tried to refuse, his hands proved traitors, his fingers tangling in her loose curls.

"Erik, what can I do to prove it?" She pleaded. Her palms against his chest, almost nose to nose. Suddenly, it was no longer the masquerade they spoke of, as she slowly, ever so slowly kissed the corner of his mouth.

The tension of months snapped, and their mouths moved together. Her hands in his hair. His hands upon her lower back as he pulled her ever closer. Her fingers caught the wire of his mask, but she did not mean what happened next. A clatter. They froze, staring at each other in shock. The mask. Erik raised his hand to cover his marred side. He turned away, but even a few seconds was enough to reastablish the features of his singular face.

Bloated upper lip and skeletally stretched skin across his sharp cheekbone. The veiny skin of his temple snaking into his hairline. Anyone else would see a monster. She saw the place where perfection blended with the beauty of his other half. The straight nose, the strong jaw, the sensuously curved lips. Christine recovered her senses and touched her hand to his shoulder. "Erik?"

He muffled a cry, but turned to face her. "This is what I am, Christine." Sorrow dripped from every word.

"May I?" She asked. He nodded, gasping as her fingertips made contact. As she traced the features of his face, she found herself speaking. His skin was soft. Just skin. A valley of his suffering.

"When I thought you were an angel, I pretended that I didn't want you to fall from heaven and be mine. I would fall asleep imagining your arms around me. That beautiful voice coming from a man. I'll admit that I never imagined you as you are. Angels are beautiful, after all. But you..."

Christine wiped his tears from his cheekbones with the pads of her thumbs. "Erik. My Erik. My Maestro." She pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks. He moaned softly. "When I was a little girl, I had a home. Then I lost it. All I had left was my music, but no one understood.." She fought to articulate her emotions. "I feel safe with you."

"Are you not afraid? What I want...oh Christine, the things I want from you are too base to speak."

"Love." She stated, "I'm not pretending. Erik, come with me to the masquerade. Or somewhere. Please." And she kissed him again. Kissed that unmasked face that even a mother couldn't love.

And he kissed her back. Suddenly so simple. "My beautiful, Christine." He whispered. "I will go anywhere you desire, I will be as gentle as a lamb. Do I dare hope that you could love me?"

"We belong to each other, Erik. Living without you would be living without music." She nestled against his chest, listening to the rapidity of his heartbeat. Feeling the rumble of his voice beneath her cheek as he replied.

"For now, that is enough."


	2. Guys I'm Dumb and Didn't Realize I Posted Chapter 1 Before Under a Different Title, Here's an Apology

A/N: I needed an outlet and also had some dreamy vibes. This is me apologizing for being dumb and posting chapter one of this under a different title (thank you Guest reviewer!). Enjoy my apology!

It had started with a simple request, for him to play some of his music for her. A careless, easy way to spend the hours in the house beneath the lake. Christine often found that Erik was not in the humor to speak, but he would always willingly share his music. It was therapeutic for them both to abandon all thought and slip into melody. It was their chief commonality; music that eclipsed all else.

She watched him play. His fingers dexterously swum over the strings. There was such beauty in the way the bow danced in his grasp. When Erik was truly lost to the music, his reticence disappeared and she could see him. Bereft of the Opera Ghost, those eyes unguarded. His lips parted with blatant sensuality. There was something indecent in the way his long body swayed. Oh yes.

Her mind went blank as he coaxed a particularly high note from the instrument, lengthening its resonance with a shaking pulse of his fingertips. She often wondered if he knew how deeply she studied him, or noticed the blood in her cheeks, the soft rustle of her petticoats as she shifted to lessen the strange tingles that overtook her. The way her gaze fixated on the parts of him that suggested more than a student-teacher relationship.

Erik, her maestro. In the past weeks, months, she had been tortured by her thoughts. Was there something unholy in their connection after all, as he seemed to think? Had she lost her senses? She spent nights a wall away from the Opera Ghost. She had seen his face and did not die, as he had supposed. She kept coming back. She should be afraid, horrified. Yet the face that appeared every time she dreamt belonged to Erik, and though he was unmasked she did not care. He would never believe, even if she had the notion to confess. He would understand, perhaps—for they were so similar—but he might not believe that their connection could go beyond the music. He was austere, upright, stoic. He was Erik.

The music stopped. She blushed under his sudden focus. He always looked at her as if time itself ceased to exist.

“Christine,” Her name was a prayer falling from his lips. She didn’t suppose that Erik believed in a higher power, but when he spoke her name she felt like a goddess. Sacrilege. Wicked. Intoxicating.

“Are you well?” He questioned. That voice, golden as his eyes. Full, rich, round.

“Quite well, Erik.” She smiled at him. He studied her uncertainly, but she kept smiling. Smiled even as the familiar urge to take his hand and pull him to sit beside her on the chaise overwhelmed her senses. He turned away to store the violin, and she was embarrassed anew by the way her gaze fixed upon the curve of his rear. 

They had settled into an easy rhythm. Three nights out of the week, she stayed with him, and their days were spent in music. Raoul had faded to a memory as his journey to the North Pole brought more and more obstacles to their burgeoning association. Distracted as she was by Erik, she couldn’t pretend to mourn Raoul’s presence. She had received three letters since she had denied his proposal upon the rooftop. They lay unopened on the table by her door. She did not know what to say.

Now she watched Erik as he delicately polished the finish of his instrument until it gleamed. The wiry muscles of his back flexed beneath his vest. He had removed his ever-present coat to play. Erik in shirtsleeves. A rare sight. Tempting. But no matter what they did together, he would not remove his mask.

Christine shook the thoughts from her head, this had been happening with frequency. Somehow, amidst the change of seasons, winter to spring she had come to a startling revelation: Despite the abnormalities of his face; Erik was a man. Despite her relative innocence, she was a woman. The pull of his company had become a constant, physical ache that arose at the most inconvenient of times.

Though they barely touched, she was beginning to realize that the fact that she registered each instance of missed contact was significant in itself. She had all of these impulses now: to lay her cheek on his shoulder when she sat beside him at the piano; to run her fingers through the thickness of his dark hair. To wrap her arms around him and inhale the scent of parchment and bergamot, of Erik. When he taught her, every slight correction to her posture burned for minutes. His touch was a brand, too her shame she had begun to slouch on purpose, just to feel his corrective touch. Something must be done.

Perhaps it was the madness of spring, but she suddenly spoke, “Erik?” He looked at her expectantly. His eyes glinted honey-gold; two shimmering points in the firelight shadows of the music room. She wanted to trace his cheekbones with her fingertips, masked or not. “May we go for a walk?”

“Anything you desire.” He bowed in the odd formal way he had, and Christine could feel the stupid grin that spread across her face when he quickly replaced his jacket, turned, and offered his arm.

“Above?” She said, and he nodded. Christine gleefully took his arm, noticing how he tensed. She babbled of nonsense things as he helped her into the gondola, tracing the movement of his arms as he poled across the lake. Every once in a while he would regard her with suspicion, as though he suspected her of plotting something. She smiled every time, and waved at him once. His visible cheek reddened.

“Erik, do I frighten you?”

“Whatever do you mean, Christine?”

She plucked nervously at one of the many silken pillows that she reclined against. “It’s just that sometimes you seem…uneasy.” There was an awkward silence.

“I am unused to…positive attention.” He replied at last.

“Oh, I thought that you might have been worried that I would take your mask again. I wouldn’t, Erik.”

“Seen enough, have you?” He asked bitterly.

Christine shook her head, cursing her lack of tact. “No—I don’t mind, I mean. I know that it would upset you.”

“I daresay it would upset the universe.” Erik sardonically mused.

“Not me.” She replied softly. “Never me.”

He did not answer, as they had reached the opposite shore. But as he helped her from the boat, she thought he might have smiled. She did not let go of his gloved hand as they entered the blackness of the tunnels.

Christine felt safe by his side. Once she had been afraid of the dark, now she embraced it if only to feel his guiding touch upon her. Too feel his breath in the blackness. To be permitted to hold his hand.

They reached the Rue Scribe door, and entered into the street. The sun was setting, the cobbled streets clattered with the sounds of people going home. It was only recently that Erik had started agreeing to walk with her in public, and it was she who now had to softly tug him into the light. 

He followed, and she smiled. 

A perfect night.


End file.
